


The Legacy Job

by writing_addict



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: (as in alchemy is still a thing but so is modern tech), Alphonse Elric And Cats, Alternate Universe - Leverage Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Roy Mustang, Cute Kids, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt Alphonse Elric, Hurt Edward Elric, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Leverage Team, Maes Hughes Lives, Parental Roy Mustang, Slice of Life, Sort of? - Freeform, Team as Family, because barry the chopper is a terrible human being, but like fma style, no knowledge of leverage is required to understand the fic, roy would make a spectacular nathan ford but also a spectacular sophie devereaux change my mind, seven criminals adopt two kids and it's great, so expect random bursts, the elrics are adorable fight me, updates whenever i write a new chapter, y'all know that's what all my fics are gonna be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-23 09:19:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17680706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_addict/pseuds/writing_addict
Summary: Roy Mustang is an assassin who leads a team of thieves in conning and crushing corrupt corporations. He prides himself on being able to plan for any contingency, to have a con for every situation, a kill for every plot-gone-wrong. With his crew of thieves and grifters by his side, he evens the odds between the corrupt and the innocent, the gray between the black-and-white of this endless game of chess, and after five years in the game, he's sure he's seen pretty much everything.What he didn’t see coming, however, was the phone call from a six-year-old begging him to kill his uncle and save his brother.Or:Roy Mustang, thief and assassin extraordinaire, accidentally-on-purpose adopts two kids. It goes as well as can be expected.





	1. The Search-and-Rescue Job

**Author's Note:**

> The title explained: This is an AU based loosely off of the show Leverage, which uses the same premise--a team of thieves take down the corrupt and act as modern-day Robin Hoods--but without the added "oh-shit-we-accidentally-adopted-kids" in it. I highly recommend that you watch it, btw (it's five seasons of PURE HEISTS AND HUMOR AND FEELS. so good). However, the show titles each episode following a single trend--each heist is a job. "The Nigerian Job, The Last Dam Job, The Beantown Bailout Job," are a few that come to mind. And as this is a kidfic full of domestic fluff and bonding, and these two kids will grow up to continue the FMA version of Leverage Co., the legacy of the seven original team members. This is, in a sense, the most vital heist of the group, though they don't know it yet--securing their "legacy". Hence, "The Legacy Job". Each chapter title will also follow this pattern!
> 
> And as for the fic itself, I used this tumblr prompt: 'You are an assassin. A little kid has just come up to you, handed you all their pocket money and asked you to kill their abusive relative.' Of course, being the Fool I am, my brain tacked on "and you accidentally adopt the kid". And then I adapted it for fma, and...here we are.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Mustang gets an unexpected phone call.

Roy Mustang knows his team jokes about his superhuman ability to plan fifty moves ahead, to play the board instead of the piece, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be surprised. It happens at least twice a year on a job, twice a month with people they’ve helped coming to return favors, at least twice a week with his team. His team—his _family,_ now, and isn’t that more surprising than anything, that a man once dedicated to hunting these people down now finds them the most honorable ones he’s ever known. The best, the most loyal, the most kind and fearless and strange—and he is theirs as much as they are his.

More than a team. _Family._ And that’s the strangest thing of all. He’s killed so many, let the people he loved die _more than once_ —and yet he knows he’d sacrifice everything for the people standing by his side now, the people who follow his orders but call him out on his bullshit, strong alone and invincible together.

 _Invincible._ He thought he put such childish ideals behind him standing over the first person killed in cold blood, when he first killed with someone _watching,_ when the alchemy he once wanted to help people with became a weapon used for death alone. He’d given up on _doing good,_ only to find that death, destruction, _fire_ could be used for so much more than…well, death and destruction. And with it, he’s gone from man to legend, the bogeyman for the rich and selfish, more monster than man--and he _likes_ being a monster if it means making them know fear. With his team by his side, that’s what he _is._ An immortal, omnipotent monster, more than human, the leverage to balance the scales stacked against the ordinary. 

Invincible and unshakable. 

So he should expect the call from his right-hand woman, have planned for it already. He should see it coming, see the request she’ll make. He should _know._

He doesn’t.

* * *

 

His cell rings from where it was cast haphazardly on the tables before Breda’s glimmering screens, the hacker’s masterpiece of tech shimmering before him and showing about a dozen different shows at once. The overlapping murmurs of each dialogue blend sweetly, swiftly into white noise, half-lulling the man seated before them to sleep. Roy, halfway through a cup of whiskey-touched coffee, grimaces at the noise and reaches for it--only to grin at the name that pops up on the caller I.D. Riza Hawkeye, _darling_ Riza, grifter extraordinary and an incredible sharpshooter--and the first one to join his team by choice and choice alone, rather than necessity.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t harbor something beyond _friendship_ for her. Fortunately for them both, he’s a damn good liar, and so too is she. They _all_ have to be, in this line of work. 

Doesn’t mean _fun_ is off-limits, though.

Phone to his ear, feet propped on his desk in their latest office (latest _cover story,_ really, the authorities had almost caught them last year and they’d had to abandon Central for East City), he drawled, “I was wondering when you’d call, Hawkeye. Any new marks for—”

“Roy.” There’s an icy fierceness, so different from her usual resignation or quiet amusement. He straightens, stiffens, lets wariness and quiet fury begin to burn in his gut. _If anyone’s touched her, if a mark found her out—_ “I’m going to hand the phone to someone. You are going to listen, and you are going to do _exactly_ as they ask, no matter what it is, and you will do it for free, understand?”

Ransom. Someone must be holding her for ransom, maybe the military, maybe the police or some other law enforcement agency after their asses, the infamous Flame’s infamous team of thieves and fighters. He grits his teeth, reaches for his gloves—he’ll _enjoy_ this, whatever it is, pretend to do as they ask as his team zeroes in on the bastard daring to hold a member of his team hostage. “Perfectly, darling Hawkeye. Please hand the phone over now.”

He waits, burning with impatience, with rage, with unstoppable wrath, waits for some rich CEO thinking to one-up the Flame to slide onto the phone, for a voice dripping with slime and oozing self-satisfaction—

Instead, there’s a quiet rustling, and then a small voice whispers, “Mr. Mustang?”

Roy blinks, stares at nothing, fury and half-formed plans giving way to blank confusion. Because the voice—that voice certainly isn’t that of an old, wealthy man using people like pawns for profit. It isn’t that of a man at all—or even a woman. Definitely not of an _adult._

It’s a child’s voice.

 _Is someone holding a child hostage with her?_ he wonders, but bit by bit his original assessment of the situation is fading, replaced with deepening confusion. Why would Riza Hawkeye demand he bow to the whims of a _child—_ why would a child need to speak to _him,_ to a _murderer-_

“I--” There’s a noise almost like a sob, quiet and shivering, and Riza murmurs soothingly somewhere in the background. “I n-need you to kill my uncle.”

Confusion lingers, clouds the words—and then begins to drift off, give way to a horrible, _heartbreaking_ reality. _Damnit._ “Kid,” he says gently, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to say to _that,_ to such a damning combination of words. To let that stain the soul of a child who can’t be—what, more than four? Five? He sounds a lot closer to four, but that could just be fear and nerves. “You know what you’re asking me to do, don’t you? That this…” _There’s no coming back from this. No way to erase it, to atone._ “Surely there’s some other way?”

There’s _definitely_ a sob this time, half-choked and shaking and tearing at his heartstrings. _Damnit, damnit—_ Maes is going to _kill_ him if he doesn’t do this, not to mention Riza (Riza will likely eviscerate him or string him up by his ankles or something equally ridiculous and creative). “I—I t-tried calling the p-police but he’s t-their _f-friend—_ said it w-was my fault Al g-got hurt, I was p-playing too r-rough—but I wasn’t, I _w-wasn’t_ , and—and he t-tells the doctors that I f-fell down th’ s-stairs and t-that m’just d-dumb—and—and _w-weak—_ and no one _b-believes_ me—” The poor kid is full-on crying now, no doubt desperate beyond measure, his words becoming lost to his sobs as Riza begins to murmur again. 

And Roy—

Roy stares at the sleek black phone, at the gloves waiting on his desk, at the fingers that suddenly itch to use them. It’s not like he hasn’t heard it before, not like some of the people on his team don’t _come_ from such situations, not like he hasn’t pondered going out and murdering every cold, cruel, unforgiving bastard who dared lay a hand on a child. Hell, it’s not like he hasn’t _helped_ kids like the one on the phone now, but it’s never been— _direct._ Never has a child openly _begged_ him to kill their caretaker; usually, he makes sure they get caught in the crossfire of whatever con he runs on the mark. Usually, they don’t need to die for the child to be freed of them.

But this is unusual. And the longer those sobs go on, the more Roy wants to hunt down whatever provoked them and grant it a long, slow death. It’s far more than whatever the bastard that caused this deserves.

“The brothers have no other family, no living or known relatives who can take them afterwards.” Riza’s voice again, once more clipped and businesslike. “I believe it’s one of the reasons the authorities are inclined to disbelieve them.” 

Yes, that would make sense—a horrible kind of sense, but sense all the same. The foster system of Amestris was already overflowing with the lost, the forgotten, those with nowhere else to go. The authorities probably thought it was best to keep the kid— _kids,_ Roy realized; gods, the one on the phone had a _brother_ —in a house rather than the system, no matter how dangerous it might be. “Can we set anyone up to take them if we take the job?”

“No one who knows about them. No one who might give a damn, besides…”

_Besides us._

But they can’t take them--they’re _thieves,_ criminals, and if the kids end up with them…they’ll be on the run, hunted, just like them. Maybe they’ll turn out like them, too--castaways of society running wild through the streets, conmen and grifters and the kinds of people that don’t dare trust the system. To take them means throwing away their chance at a normal life, a normal childhood.

To leave them means leaving them to death and loss and an agony so deep, so scarring that they may never recover. It means throwing away their  _lives._

It’s hardly a choice at all.

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this._ “What information do you have on the uncle?”

“Barry Sfazo,” Riza rattles off immediately, as though she expected him to cave from the beginning--and who’s he kidding, of course she had. He’s _not_ soft-hearted, he scoffs to himself, that’s _ridiculous,_ but he’ll admit to being a _tad_ weaker when it comes to things like this. “35, unmarried, owns a butcher shop, next-of-kin to Trisha Elric, now deceased.” There’s another quiet sob--probably from the kid. Trisha Elric must be the boys’ mother, then. _This just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?_ “A few contacts with the local authorities, as I’m sure you’ve surmised by now, but other than that, no one who’d miss him.” 

“What do you think?” Roy drawls, leaning back in his chair again. “Make it look like an accident, or make sure they know who’s in town?” The savage, burning wrath is still bubbling, but no longer is it directed at whoever holds the phone--no, it’s beginning to burn against _Barry Sfazo,_ whoever he is. Against a man who thinks strength, courage, power comes from hitting _children._

Jesus, he’s going to have _kids_ running around these offices soon enough. _Wonderful. Baby thieves. That’s exactly what we need._

“As much as I think he deserves to feel true fear, sir, I don’t think we ought to risk the state getting their claws into the children.” Riza’s assessment is clinical and sharp as always, what someone who didn’t know her would call _unfeeling,_ but he can sense the frozen wrath seething beneath her words. “The man _is_ known for drinking after he closes up shop, sir. Would be a _shame_ if he were to be found driving recklessly after one such night and got into an unfortunate crash.”

“My sentiments exactly.” He drums his fingers lightly on the desk, plans flickering and forming. They’ll need Breda to forge documents marking him as the guardian of the children, with Riza as the next of kin, and Havoc and Falman and Fuery. Of course, their names are a _tad_ recognizable now, but the police’s facial recognition software is absolutely terrible, so one of their forged identities should work quite well when they come to pick them up. A bit of grifting on all their ends, a few falsified records… 

Somewhere in the midst of all this, he realizes that he forgot to ask the most vital question of all. “Hawkeye--” 

“Edward Elric, six years old,” she fills in, with a fond edge those who didn’t know her well would miss. “Alphonse Elric, five years. I have Ed with me right now. He’s the one who… _alerted_ me to the situation.” 

 _Ed._ She’s already attached.

In all fairness, he is as well--and he hasn’t even met the kids in _person_ yet. _This is going to be a disaster,_ he thinks, not for the first time, but he can’t keep himself from smirking. One more asshole is going to be six feet under by the end of the day, and two kids are going to be freed from the clutches of a monster. It’s a win-win, really. Even if it does result in his team having two more, much _smaller_ members to look after.

 _Stop,_ he scolds himself after a moment. _You’re not rescuing them just to bring them into a life of crime. In fact, as soon as you can find a better option for them, they’re out. You are_ not _training small children to become thieves._ “I trust you’ll have it covered, Hawkeye?” he says aloud. 

“Yes, sir.” He can practically hear the tiny, wicked smile on her face. “I think…about three o’clock tomorrow morning, it should be set.” 

“Excellent. Mind putting Edward on the phone?” _Don’t you dare get any more attached,_ he orders himself as quiet rustling and murmurs sound through the phone. _Don’t you dare--_

“Mr. Mustang?” The kid’s voice still shakes, sounds choked and hoarse and thick from tears. He can’t help the pity that stirs his heart at the sound. _No kid should sound like that,_ he thinks, and for a moment, his fingers curl into a fist. _So…defeated._ “I--I c-can pay, if--”

Hawkeye’s mutter of, _“Oh, Jesus,"_ is audible even over the phone. Roy shares the sentiment entirely. “No need,” he says briskly. “You’re one of us now, however briefly--and besides, I’m worth _much_ more than you can pay, kiddo.” The attempt at levity falls flat-- _almost--_ and then the kid makes a faintly indignant noise, quietly disgruntled. It’s small, barely a flicker that fades into a whimper, but there’s a hint of _temper_ and _spunk_ there that, if given room to flourish, will fit right in with the rest of the team and _oh god he’s getting attached, isn’t he._

Roy can’t help the wry grin that tugs at his lips. “Seriously, kid. No pay necessary.” He lets his tone sober. “We get it, y’know. Sometimes bad guys are the only good guys you get.” He gazes down at his hands-- _killer’s_ hands, murderer’s hands (there’s a flash of doubt-- _what right do you have to be near a child, with all the ones you’ve killed outside your crusade_ \--before he chokes it down)--watches his fingers curl into loose fists with a strange feeling of detachment. “I figured you shouldn’t have to pay extra on top of that.”

Silence. Then a quiet, shaky breath, and a _thank-you_ so soft he can barely hear it. Roy lets it slide easily, unfurling his fingers and reaching for his gloves. “Thank you for trusting us, Edward Elric.” The professionalism slips into his tone unbidden, feels almost unnatural while talking to such a small, broken creature. “I have to hang up now and call a friend, but trust me, kid, we’ll have you and your brother out and safe before you know it.” There--that’s lighter, gentler, more natural. “Just hang on a little bit longer.”

The kid sniffles on the other end of the phone, but Roy catches a hint of that _spark_ again as he whispers, “Okay.” 

The call disconnects, and Roy doesn’t allow himself a moment’s pause, doesn’t dare think about it or try to reconsider. The children will be coming to their commandeered bar-slash-lair-slash-home soon, and he needs to ensure their affairs are entirely in order. He scrolls through his contacts, hovers above a name--hits it.

“Breda,” he says without preamble, “I need your help.”

_Let’s go steal their lives back._


	2. The Nine's A Crowd Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why Roy decided to form a team with the seven most chaotic criminals in the known world, he'll never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Chapter Title: The Seven Li'l Grifters Job (a play off the actual Leverage episode "The Ten Li'l Grifters Job")
> 
> As the tags say, I'll update whenever I have a new chapter! So unlike [conflicted by the very air i breathe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515493/chapters/41261645), which updates weekly on Tuesdays (give it a look if you like hurt/comfort and ed angst!), this will update whenever I get a chance! Now go, enjoy the shenanigans!

Barry Sfazo dies in an unfortunate but all-too-common incident of drunk driving involving a fence, a police car, and a tree--tragic, perhaps, but these things are just a fact of life. Roy has to hand it to Maes--the man has _style_ when it comes to arranging these things, though he’s sure that the addition of the police car had something to do with Riza. A bit of poetic justice, perhaps, considering that the police failed to help the two children who came to them begging for nothing more than to be _believed_ . Really, they brought this upon themselves. ****  
** **

Few tears are cried when the news goes out. A handful of officers, Breda tells him later, seemed slightly downtrodden on the security cameras, but nothing more than that. Good. It means few people will look too hard at the mysterious (and absolutely _dashing_ , he knows; the charm will be turned up _all the way_ ) man who shows up to rescue the poor, abandoned children from a cold and lonely fate in foster homes or the streets of East City. They’ll likely be happier to have the two kids off their hands and somewhere they think is safe-- _is_ safe, Roy reminds himself halfway to the local police station after receiving the call. Maybe a little… _unconventional,_ but far safer than growing up with a man who laughed at and loathed and broke children for the fun of it.  ****  
** **

If anything, the kids will end up staying in a veritable _fortress_ for however long they’re with him. Their offices, their _homes_ have only been breached once, in their first year of working together, and they burned them down rather than letting their enemies have their way with it. No, _nobody’s_ hurting those kids ever again. Not if Riza--and yeah, okay, _maybe_ Roy himself--has anything to do with it. ****  
** **

He arrives at the station, a not-entirely-faked expression of panic written all over his face. No time to be charming, he reminds himself; a panicking relative would hardly try to charm some of the (admittedly lovely) secretaries and officers in the station. Besides, there’s no time to waste--the longer he leaves the Elrics, the more likely it is that they’ll be snapped up by the system, and he’s certainly not leaving them to the mercy of the officers who did _nothing_ the first time around.  ****  
** **

“I heard about Barry,” he gasps to the first person to approach him, skidding to a halt. “The boys--Ed and Al, are they--are they okay?”  ****  
** **

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in a window--he looks overwrought with worry, eyes wide, hands half-shaking, harried and restless and chock-full of concern. _Good._ He _is_ concerned, entirely for the two kids he can’t quite see from here, but a dash of his usual talent with conning and a hint of real emotion and Roy Mustang, thief, assassin, and criminal vigilante, has vanished entirely. Standing before the police now is Marcus Reams, a young, charming accountant with an equally young, charming wife and a perfectly safe home with which to take the kids. ****  
** **

It’s certainly all the woman before him sees, her eyes softening as she gives him a smile clearly meant to be comforting. “The Elrics are fine. Mr. Reams, I presume?”  ****  
** **

She holds out her hand, and Roy shakes it with the air of distraction befitting a man in a state of urgency. “Yes--yes, that’s me. Can I--do you mind if I see them?” ****  
** **

She laughs, a slightly grating noise. It takes years of practice, of dealing with all manner of irritating people in an effort to swindle their riches away, to keep him from twitching at the shockingly nasal sound. “Of course not, Mr. Reams. They’re a little shaken, but they were in Mr. Sfazo’s apartment at the time of the crash. They’ll probably be glad to leave.” ****  
** **

_Honey, you don’t know the half of it._ ****  
** **

She starts walking, low heels clicking on the white tiles, another soft sound blending into the medley of machinery and voices echoing through the room, and Roy follows, eyes raking over the room. No signs of suspicion, recognition-- _perfect._ Breda’s work with forgeries and tech really _is_ too good. He’ll have to give the man a bigger cut after the next heist. Hell, he’ll have to give them all a bigger cut after putting up with his spur-of-the-moment adoption of _two kids,_ shit, he’s going to be a _father._ Sort of. Maes is going to lose his shit _(again)_ either way.  ****  
** **

“In here.” The woman’s voice cuts through his musings, and he blinks, realizing she’s holding a door open. And inside…  ****  
** **

Inside the room are two _frighteningly_ small children huddled up against one another, curled up tight against whatever comes their way. He can’t make out much from how they’re sitting--two blonde heads, skinny arms, both shivering despite the heated room--but he hears one whispering _it’sokayit’sokayit’sokay_ while the other sniffles, remembers that voice sobbing into a phone and begging for help, for someone to _believe_ him. Suddenly Roy can’t breathe, because _Jesus Christ, he’s going to be a father, he has to take care of them, protect them._ ****  
** **

He will. ****  
** **

He _has_ to. And he’s not going to be alone while he does, either. “Thank you,” he rasps to the woman, and he doesn’t have to fake the sudden, heady mix of relief and terror that swamps him. His feet carry him a few more steps before he kneels before the chair the boys are huddled in, before one of those golden heads shifts and reveals equally golden eyes. There’s something _burning_ there--fractured and hollow but burning bright, and Roy has to choke down a wry laugh, a half-smile. _Yeah, he’ll fit right in._ ****  
** **

“Boys?” His voice is more tentative than he’d like it to be, but it’s _real,_ and right now, the boys need something they can trust. Even if that _something_ is a career criminal who operates like a modern-day Robin Hood. “It’s me, Marcus.” ****  
** **

Golden eyes narrow, hesitance and fear burning bright within them. The other child doesn’t look up at him, head buried in his brother’s shoulder. Roy can hardly blame him--they’ve never met in person, and one phone call is hardly enough to memorize a person’s voice. The woman is still watching from the doorway--protocol, probably, he’d feel even more inclined to levy his next heist against the East City Police Department if they left two abused children with a near-stranger. Still, it means he can’t say anything, reveal himself…but his back is to her, so a signal might work. ****  
** **

He winks--cliche, he knows, but cut him some _slack_ , this is no place for theatrics--and says, “Remember me, kiddo?” ****  
** **

And then Ed-- ****  
** **

Roy yelps as the child flings himself at him with nothing short of a _wail,_ skinny arms wrapped around his neck as a shockingly frail body clings to him and cries tears of what another might mistake for sorrow and shock. They _aren’t_ , though, and he knows it. These are tears of relief, of _hope_ , of all the things he hasn’t had…probably since his mother died. Something in Roy’s heart _twists,_ and he brings one arm up to wrap around the too-thin, squirming child in his lap, the other reaching out to the boy who must be Al. “I told you I’d come if you ever needed anything,” he says gently. _I told you I’d save you, didn’t I?_ ****  
** **

Something lights up in the smaller boy’s face, and then there’s another kid settled right next to his brother, clinging to him and whispering _“Thankyouthankyouthankyou”_ over and over and over until it blurs into one garbled word. ****  
** **

Roy just holds them both, lets the blood on his hands seep away to dust and darkness, and thinks ruefully about just how whipped he’s going to be after a few hours with them.

* * *

   

_“Roy, give the kids their comms, damnit! I want to talk to them!”_

Roy resists the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel, glancing down at the two smaller versions of the comm unit-- _bone conduction earpiece mic,_ Breda’s voice hisses again, forever somewhere between amused and irritated at the reduction of earpieces that have saved their lives to “comms”--in his ear. It’s technically what they _are,_ though, and _comms_ is so much faster to say that Roy’s never seen the need to stop it.

He didn’t think Breda would make ones for the _kids,_ though. Like they need the voices of six ridiculous thieves jabbering at them at all hours of the day--er, _five._ Riza will kill him, he knows, if she ever finds out he described her as “ridiculous”. “Havoc,” he says, “I’m _driving.”_ It’s not much of an excuse, but damnit, it’s all he’s got right now.

 _“Just give them the box,”_ Breda snorts, sounding endlessly amused with the whole situation, damn him. _“They’re smart kids; I doubt they’ll break them. Besides, Hughes is going stir-crazy.”_

_“HEY!”_

He sighs--not for the first time--and shakes his head, momentarily forgetting that they can’t see him. “Hughes, I’m literally begging you not to yell in the comms.”

 _“Breda’s right,”_ Riza says, because what else does she live for besides making his life miserable. _Guard my back, my_ ass. _“Besides, it’s probably better if they get the chance to adjust to us and what we do a little before we meet in person.”_

“Brother, w-who’s he talking to?” Al’s voice is small, soft as he shifts toward his brother in the backseat. They’ve been mostly silent throughout the drive to his building--unlike the six _adults_ constantly nagging him like the assholes they are. Why he likes these people, he’ll never know.

He can feel golden eyes boring into the back of his skull, wide and wary. “I dunno,” Ed whispers back, and something in him twists and cracks again at the barely-disguised fear in that voice. “But--but it’s gotta be l-loads better than Uncle, s-so--we’re gonna be fine, Al, I _t-told_ you they’d come for us, and they did!” For a moment, the kid sounds hilariously proud of himself, and it takes everything in Roy not to coo _“awww”_ like Maes, of all people. “Even if t-they’re crazy.”

And the moment’s over, and they think he’s insane. Wonderful. 

 _“Pleeeeease,”_ Fuery wheedles. _“We’re not gonna do anything scare them, I swear!”_

“Fuery, the last time you said ‘I swear’, you promised not to rappel down from the military’s siege towers, and then you _did.”_

 _“My fingers were crossed, so it didn’t count,”_ the thief counters with uncanny cheeriness. _“Come ooooooon, please?”_

 _“I’d quite like to hear from them as well,”_ Falman puts in.

 _“Just do it, Boss,”_ Havoc calls. _“If Falman’s arguin’ with ya, you_ know _you’ve gotta ‘acquiesce to his demands or whatever the fuck you call it.”_

 _“Language,_ please, _Havoc--”_

 _“Aw, come_ on, _Hughes!”_

Roy grits his teeth--and then wilts. They’re probably going to end up with comms anyway, listening in when they’re off conning and stealing and taking the corrupt for all they’re worth. It’s a matter of safety, really; the more people they trust that know if something goes wrong, the more likely it is that things will go _right._ Besides, it’s not like this is going to induct them into a life of criminal activity. It’s just listening. What harm can that do?

 _So much,_ his common sense, so used to prevailing over everything else. _You_ know _how much._

Roy ignores it and sighs, grabbing the box with the comms in it and passing it into the backseat. “Consider it six and seven years’ worth of birthday presents,” he manages to quip, peering into the rearview mirror to see the boys peering down at the now-opened box with identical expressions of confusion. “You put those in and you’ll be able to hear me-- _any_ of us, all of us--and contact us whenever you need help.” Excited murmuring echoes in his ears, the team starting to bicker and banter over who gets to greet the kids first, and he tunes it out. “We’ll be with you whenever you need us. No questions asked.” He taps his ear. “Hey, Breda, patch them in.”

_“Will do, sir.”_

“Don’t call me that, damnit, it makes me sound old.” He grins over his shoulder at the boys, Ed helping Al put the comm in before trying to adjust his own. “They set?”

 _“They’re online!”_ Havoc crows. _“What’s goin’ on, kiddos!”_

“Don’t _startle_ them, Havoc, what the f--”

 _“_ Language _, Roy! Also, hi, Ed, Al, can’t wait to meet you in person--”_

_“Maes, please try to slow down enough for them to actually understand you.”_

Ed brightens visibly in the backseat, and it takes everything in Roy not to chuckle as golden eyes light up with sudden recognition. “Miss Hawkeye!” He tugs eagerly on his little brother’s sleeve; Al’s eyes are wide, mouth open, seemingly overwhelmed and awed by the conversation. It’s adorable, really. “Al, I told y-you about her, right? She--she, uh, f-found me in the vents, and--and she asked m-me what was wrong, and s-she offered to shoot Uncle right t-there.”

Jesus Christ. “Hawkeye, you did _what.”_

_“To be fair, sir, he deserved it.”_

“And she _believed_ me,” Ed says with nothing short of hero-worship in his voice. “She b-believed me and now we’re gonna--we’re g-gonna be _o-okay!”_ His voice shakes especially hard on the last word, as if he can hardly believe it, but there’s incandescent hope in those big golden eyes. 

_“Oh my God, they’re adorable. Roy. Roy, I’m gonna get them so much stuff. And take so many pictures. They sound so cuuuuuute!”_

_“Edward, Alphonse,”_ Riza says, because constantly undermining him or not, she’s an absolute _saint, “that’s Maes Hughes, an excellent grifter and a dear friend of ours. He’s…quite excited to meet you.”_

 _“I still can’t believe your solution to this was ‘let’s adopt the kids’,”_ Havoc grumbles good-naturedly, and Roy snorts despite himself at the hitter’s words--before wincing as the two boys both flinch, looking suddenly upset and ashamed. _“Honestly, Boss--”_

“Tone down the sarcasm, Havoc, you’re upsetting the kids.” He lets a hint of the mastermind creep into his voice, sharp and cold and screaming a warning. Havoc, quite reasonably, subsides and mutters an apology. He glances over his shoulder at the kids again--Al looks more curious than upset again, but Ed’s look of excitement has faded into the beginnings of _fear,_ and that--well, that just wouldn’t do, would it? “Sorry about Havoc,” he chirps, trying to mimic Fuery’s occasionally-terrifying cheeriness. “He doesn’t exactly _think_ before he opens his mouth.”

 _“He once called Hawkeye her real name in front of a mark,”_ Fuery agrees, much to Havoc’s grumbling. _“Nearly ruined the_ whole _job, it was_ so _funny--”_

 _“It was_ not,” Falman snaps. _“I went to prison!”_

 _“Oh, for two days, you were_ fine…”

Roy lets their good-natured bickering fade out, glancing over his shoulder at Ed and Al once more. Both of them…both of them look almost _happy,_ once again more excited and hopeful than scared. Both of them look like _normal kids,_ despite their far-from-normal lives, despite their struggles, despite the pain they still have left to conquer _._

Quietly, he promises to himself that he’ll keep that look on their faces no matter what. Aloud, he says, “Welcome home, Edward and Alphonse Elric,” and pulls into the lot before the beloved bar that’s the home of the nastiest crew this side of the desert--and their _kids_.

And in that moment, fatherhood isn't quite as terrifying as a thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Please drop me a comment or a kudos if you liked it, a review if you REALLY liked it, and shoot me any questions you might have! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Sincerely,  
> Addict
> 
> (P.S.: Wanna get in touch to talk fic? My discord is "definitely mads#4809". Please, DM me whenever you like and we can talk FMA to our hearts' content!)


	3. The It's My Party Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Mustang is chaotic, Havoc makes pancakes, and Ed and Al are absolutely freaking adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Havoc cooks because...Eliot Spencer, I guess.

Roy hadn’t expected the Elric brothers to immediately (and quite unintentionally, considering they were in no state to actually _con_ people at the time) steal the hearts of the entire team as soon as they laid eyes on them. Six days later, though, and here they are, being utterly doted on by _everybody._ Even Falman has a soft spot for them, and the man is usually so quiet and focused that nothing can distract him, but one word from Al and their head of intelligence is suddenly dropping everything ( _literally;_ he’d dropped a stack of files on the ground just yesterday to pick the five-year-old up) to take care of him. It’s probably a good thing that neither kid has figured out the power they wield, though they don’t strike him as the types to take advantage of it.

…Then again, that could just be the trauma talking. Which there’s a _lot_ of, in fact, more than should ever be in children that young. Roy hadn’t seen much of it that first day, the two so overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of adoring adults intent on coddling the living hell out of them that they hadn’t been able to do much besides stare and stammer and be cooed over (even by _Hawkeye,_ of all people, who Ed seems to adore more than any of them now--except maybe Roy himself. He can’t explain the kid’s strange attachment to him, but if Riza’s not available for whatever thing he needs help with, he goes right to him). It’s revealing itself, though, swiftly and surely.

Roy hates--and is surprised that he hates--that he’s so useless to the two in this regard. Killing their uncle? Oh, sure. It wasn’t even that hard of an accident to _arrange,_ nothing like the death of the corrupt Lady of Lagneia, who’d survived all their attempts until Roy had personally come after her. But erasing the nightmares that leave them both sobbing in their sleep? Soothing away the anxieties that leave Ed trembling whenever someone moves too fast, the fears that make Al jolt whenever someone speaks too loudly? Convincing them both that they can be _kids,_ that they don’t have to do everything themselves in order to survive, that they’re really, truly _safe?_ He’s paralyzed, stumbling through the dark.

Riza is a hundred times better, Maes a thousand times, and yet the boys seem to call for _him_ when they’re lost to fear. And every time, he stumbles over words and gestures and blunders blindly through the comforting portion until the tears at least slow and they’re willing to let someone else come near.

It’s only been six days, and he _knows_ you can’t rush these things, but it doesn’t feel any less like a failure on his part when Al wakes up in tears and mistakes him for his bastard of an uncle in the dark. Or when Ed is found curled up in a tiny corner, crying like his heart is about to break and refusing to let any of them come close. Or when both of them are found hoarding half their food in the bedside table between their bunks in the room Maes is in the middle of decorating for them.

God, he wishes he could fix things with a snap of his fingers rather than burning it all down.

Still, things are going…okay. At least, he’s _pretty_ sure things are going okay. He’s never been _this_ massively out of his depth before; grifter charm and mastermind schemes don’t exactly work on two traumatized small children. But they seem fundamentally attached to him, and he’s at least 85% sure that if someone tried to take them, he’d rip them to shreds. 87%, on a particularly good day.

Which, damn him and his weakness for small cute things being adorable, this seems likely to be. The bar isn’t open yet, which means the kitchens and the whole of the pub on the ground floor of their building is open for use by its owners, and Havoc’s making pancakes and whacking anyone who tries to sneak a taste of the batter with a wooden spoon—anyone but the kids, Roy knows, who he dumps _entire bags_ of chocolate chips and fresh fruit into the batter for. Roy willingly lets Riza tug his usual Southern Limerick out of his grip, pouring it down the sink and replacing it with a cup of hot, non-alcoholic black coffee. “Must you?” he complains, because the song and dance that goes with the action is part of the daily routine at this point, and he really _does_ love a good Southern Limerick.

However, he loves the glimmer of amusement and fondness in Riza’s eyes far more as she says, “I must.”

Fuery practically bounces down from his apartment on the top floor, a place that’s all rafters and open ceilings and vents to climb and crawl through. The thief’s come a long way from the sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued wild card who was tagged by their first mark, the one who brought his team together—the one who turned on them, and now rots in a shallow grave, alone and unmourned for his betrayal. That person never would’ve trusted them not to shoot him when his back was turned, let alone willingly stay in an apartment and work with them—be friends, _family_ to them.

And yet here he is, hurrying down the stairs with Al on his shoulders and Ed stumbling behind him, the latter still rubbing at his eyes sleepily. Roy snorts in amusement and raises his coffee in greeting, choking on an entirely-too-Maes-like coo when Al waves drowsily back, his small hands entirely covered by too-big pajama sleeves. Fuery grins wide and bright, and there’s a sudden yelp as the small child on his shoulders is dislodged and plopped on one of the bar stools. Ed whines wordlessly, trying and failing to scramble onto the one next to his brother, only to yelp uncannily similarly when Maes, looking horribly peppy for such a sinfully early hour of the day (he _knows_ it’s ten o’clock, shut up, Falman), gives him a boost onto the chair.

It’s _disgustingly_ domestic, he thinks with amusement. Olivier Armstrong would be furious if she found her nemeses acting like this. “Havoc, please tell me the pancakes are more fruit than chocolate,” he calls, because someone has to make sure the kids eat healthy, damnit (and he _definitely_ didn’t spend hours after that first night reading up on what kids their age needed to eat, _certainly_ not).

 _“Chocolate?”_ Ed squeaks before Havoc can say anything, eyes going dramatically round. Al giggles next to him—and oh, _no,_ the kid’s probably a chocoholic. _Great, there’s going to be a six-year-old on a sugar high running around a bar. What could go wrong?_ “T-there’s—chocolate?"

“Chocolate-chip _pancakes,”_ Havoc corrects from the kitchen, before there’s a loud _whack_ and Breda hisses in annoyance. “Don’t eat the Mickey pancakes, you asshole, they’re for the kids!”

 _“Language,”_ Maes reprimands for the twenty-second time that week, and Roy disguises his laugh by taking a large gulp of coffee and struggling not to spit it out because it’s _too HOT that was a TERRIBLE idea._ Twin glasses of orange juice are set before the boys by Falman, the only one of them (besides Riza) with any sense. “And Havoc’s making his world-famous pancakes for your one-week adoption anniversary!”

With a sort of horror, Roy realizes that the man is grinning mischievously at his phone in a way that can only mean _pictures._ Dozens and dozens and _dozens_ of pictures, and oh, hell, that’s what all the wrapping paper he saw Hughes moving into his floor was for. This is going to be a _party,_ and the last time they had one of those, they got thrown out of their own _bar._

He has faith in Maes, though—and that’s a weird thing, _trusting_ a _grifter_ of all people, but the sheer irony of his team of thieves and criminals and liars is that there’s no one he trusts _more._ He knows full well that his best friend (best _fiend,_ sometimes; the man has a mischievous streak a mile wide and it drives him _insane,_ but he always focuses in when they’re on a job) is well aware of Ed and Al’s fears and struggles, that he would never do anything to upset the boys. All he can do is hope that Fuery didn’t get them lockpick sets and explosives (he still has nightmares about when they were trying to save the life of a scientist and Fuery cheerfully reminded the man “not to mix up the toothpaste and explosives” that he’d somehow snuck into the care package they’d sent) and wait for the penny to drop.

Sure enough, Maes winks at him just as Havoc tosses a can of whipped cream at Breda and demands that he “put the best smiley face the goddamn world has ever seen on ‘em”, and Roy decides that it’s long past time he threw himself into the nearest possible Dumpster and set it on fire. “How’d you sleep, boys?” the grifter inquires before Roy can dodge Riza and enact his maniacal plan, leaning forward as Havoc, ever the leader in the kitchen, barks orders at Breda, Fuery and Falman involving syrup and berries.

“G-good, Mr. Hughes,” Al pipes up, ever polite and sweet, almost the polar opposite of the older boy currently bouncing up and down in his seat waiting eagerly for the chocolate pancakes. Actually, that’s not fair—Ed’s polite, too, but it’s less out of sweetness and more out of the fear that still haunts them both. Still, that spark of _something_ has turned into a burning ember, one that Roy both dreads and hopes will become a conflagration of strength and heart and power.

“Did Roy’s snoring keep you up?”

“Maes, I _swear—”_

“Roy, don’t kill Maes, Maes, don’t antagonize Roy,” Riza cuts in, a hand clamping down firmly on his shoulder as the boys glance between them with identically adorable expressions of confusion. “I’m glad you slept well, boys. Please, please don’t use these two as role models. They’re horrible.”

“Not _t-that_ horrible,” Ed says, loyal and adorable and so small and precious that Roy itches to go dig up Barry Sfazo and give him a much longer, slower death for ever laying a hand on _either_ of the two kids currently sitting at the bar. “I mean—Mr. Hughes reads to us, and Mr. Mustang s-saved us—and if _you_ p-put up with them, then they’ve gotta be okay, right?” Golden eyes drift between him and Riza, before snapping to the kitchen as Havoc screeches, _“Not THAT much syrup, you HEATHEN!”_ and Roy prays that his defense of him isn’t because he’s scared to defy adults, but because he actually _likes_ him enough _not_ to be scared to death.  

“Havoc,” he says aloud, “you’re not allowed to kill Breda and Fuery over syrup. And _thank_ you, Ed, it’s nice that _someone_ appreciates all I do for this team. But don’t call me ‘Mr. Mustang’, it makes me sound professional and old.”

“But you _a-are_ old.” It’s said with the blunt confusion and innocence of a child and—oh, fucking hell, Roy is going to kill that kid when he’s old enough not to be scared of him anymore. The second that spark actually flares into fire, he is _oh-so-entirely dead—_

Hawkeye has the nerve to _snort_ at that, Al giggling at the disgruntled look he knows full well is written all over his face. Ed’s shoulders (oh, the little shit knows _exactly_ what he said) are shaking as he, similarly to Roy’s failed let’s-drown-laughter-in-coffee plan, takes a gulp of orange juice in an attempt to swallow his own laughter. Havoc sticks his head out of the kitchen looking nothing short of betrayed and _scandalized_. “They’re _drowning_ the pancakes!”

“You can’t drown on land!” Fuery chimes, grinning in a way that says he knows precisely how much this pushes Havoc’s buttons. Roy resists the urge to hit his head against the bar and instead simply raises an eyebrow. _“Everyone_ knows that.”

“Actually,” Falman starts, ever valiantly fighting ignorance, but then Breda is setting two heaping platters of pancakes and whipped cream and fresh fruit before the boys, and Al’s gasp of sheer awe drowns out whatever the poor man is trying to say. Roy has to admit; the confections look _amazing._ Havoc’s definitely outdone himself this time. “Forks,” he mutters. “Please, _please,_ someone get them forks, don’t let them eat it with their hands—”

“They’re on the plates, sir,” Riza says dryly. “Please stop trying to drown yourself in your coffee. You can’t escape that easily.”

Goddamnit, she’s right as always. He lifts his head out of the coffee, before hurrying to his feet as Maes snaps what must be at least five pictures with his phone before whipping a Polaroid out of what seems to be thin air. Luckily, the boys don’t startle, too busy attacking the pancakes, but then Maes is thrusting the camera into his hands with a grin that promises nothing but mischief and rushing back up the staircase in the back room—oh, God, probably for the damn _presents._ He’s seen— _contributed_ to—the mountain of stuffed animals and books and clothes shoved into one of the storage closets. It’s ridiculous. This mini-party is even more ridiculous.

Maes is going to spoil them rotten. Hell, all of them—Roy included—are going to spoil them rotten.

Right now, helping Al adjust his grip on the knife while Ed draws stars and smiley faces in the mountain of whipped cream, listening to Breda, Havoc, and Falman begin to bicker good-naturedly in the background, Roy doesn’t really care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please drop a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed it, and I'll have the next chapter out as soon as I can!


	4. The Panic Button Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuery is the terrible influence for once in his life, Roy is worried beyond belief, and Riza's the only rational one on the team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _miiiiiiight _have tried out a little angst on this one. But hey! Two updates in as many days!__

 

Edward Elric is hiding somewhere in the ventilation shafts. Edward Elric is _missing,_ scrambling out of sight and out of mind with nothing but a terrified wail to let them know he was there in the first place. And worst of all, all of Roy’s nightmares about the boys are coming true right before his goddamn eyes.

He’s eighty-five percent sure it wasn’t something he did—at least, not on purpose. While the previous day had been good, the week-and-a-half marker of their “rescue mission”, something had changed in the night. Something Roy, for all the boys seem to cling to him during their darkest moments, had _missed._ Something he’s _still_ missing, even as he plans to _kill_ Fuery for teaching the kid how to escape into the vents, even as Havoc and Breda distract Al from scrambling after his brother.

“Which vent,” he mutters to himself, pacing— _not_ pacing wildly, he’s not out of his mind with worry, he _swears_ he isn’t—back and forth and wracking his brain. “Which vent, which _floor_ —” _What if he falls in the boiler room or something, oh, God, he can’t navigate them like a trained thief, what if he_ dies—

Maes is quietly talking with Fuery in the background, Falman and Riza spreading schematics of the building over the bar counter, their chatter fading into white noise as he forces down the strange feeling bubbling in his chest and _thinks._ This shouldn’t be as hard as is, thinking through the overwhelming _panic—ah,_ he thinks distantly of the nausea and nerves swirling in his gut, _that’s what that is, oh dear—_ swamping him. He’s done it on jobs, done it with a gun pressed to his head and his gloves and allies out of reach, done it to save lives and damn them. But the more he thinks about the kid curled up in a cold metal tunnel, alone and terrified, the more he wants to burn down the world to get to him rather than think it through.

He _has_ to think it through, though. That’s who he _is._ The mastermind. And if he loses his cool, so does the team gathered around him.

 _Think, Roy,_ a voice suspiciously like Madame Christmas’s commands. _Think. What set this off? Where would he go?_

Ed had been… _quiet,_ when he’d come out of his room for breakfast. Al, on the other hand, had been surprisingly cheery, clutching the stuffed cat Maes had gotten for him at the one-week party a few days ago and practically bouncing down the steps, so whatever it is can’t be affecting _him—_ but Ed’s upset, has _been_ upset, and is now _hiding in the vents._ How a kid that tiny _got_ in the vents is anyone’s guess (and Roy doesn’t exactly want to _take_ guesses now, given that he’d burn something), but _that’s_ not the issue. The issue is what set it off, and where he went, and how to find him.

 _Damnit, Mustang,_ think! With a snarl, his grip on the edge of the counter goes white-knuckled, eyes squeezing shut as he forces himself to think, to _remember._ Somewhere behind him, Al whispers, _“Is Mr. Roy okay?”_ and—god, he sounds _scared._ Of _him._

_Did their uncle ever look like this before he—before they were—_

Roy forces himself to relax, to _breathe—_ for the five-year-old’s sake more than his. He rescued them to ensure they would never face fear like that ever again, not to scare them even _more (like you did to Ed, like you did to Ed, like you did to Ed)._ “I’m fine, Al,” he says over Havoc and Breda’s quiet, frantic reassurances. “I’m just worried about Ed, but I’ll be fine.”

“T-that means you’re _not_ fine,” Al mutters with all the indignance of a five-year-old with unanswered questions. “’sides, Ed’s jus’—” Bronze eyes blink, before the child’s brow furrows, a frown pulling at his lips as Breda and Havoc exchange horrified looks (and he can’t really blame them; there’s already one panicking kid somewhere in the building. A second would probably drive all of them into this weird, frantically protective state). Then, of all things, Al squirms guiltily before looking down at the stuffed cat and mumbling, “M’not ‘llowed to say.”

Which implies there’s something to say. Which implies Al _knows_ where Ed is, and _of course he does,_ why didn’t Roy see it _before,_ Ed would always make sure his little brother knew where he could find him no matter how scared he was. _He thinks like a thief,_ some small part of Roy whispers as he opens his eyes, meeting Riza’s across the bar counter, the warm amber now hard as diamond. _Always have an out. Always have an opening._

Gritting his teeth, he beats the thought back—he will _not_ be turning these kids into thieves, no matter how naturally gifted they turn out to be at it—and glances sideways at Al. “Kiddo,” he starts, and makes sure his voice is gentle, reassuring, kind. It doesn’t stop the worry from seeping through, the _panic,_ but maybe that addition of _true emotion_ is makes Al’s eyes widen, indecision flickering there. “Do you know where Ed is?”

The rest of the team is watching them now, expressions ranging from confused to understanding to shocked. Al worries at the tail of the stuffed cat, looking suddenly even smaller than he is physically. It’s a bit terrifying, and for a second, Roy feels that familiar flare of fear again—that he’s too poisonous, far too drenched in blood to touch these children without destroying them entirely. He ignores it, though, lets it course through him without confronting it, because they don’t have _time_ for this—Ed is curled up somewhere between walls and floors and ceilings and they _have_ to find him. Have to. He just _got_ this damn child, he’s certainly not going to lose him that easily and _damnit, Edward Elric, where are you,_ please—

“H-he had a n-nightmare.” Al plucks at the ribbon around the cat’s neck as all eyes stay on him, Roy’s included. “I-it was b-bad. I think—I t-think it was about w-when Mama…w-when she, um…” Tears glimmer in those eyes, and Roy suddenly regrets everything he just said, wants nothing more than to wrap the boy up in his arms and apologize a hundred, a thousand times and _shit, I am so, so whipped._ “When she d-died. And usually we both have—h-have bad dreams, b-but I—I _didn’t,_ so he—h-he—”

“He pretended nothing was wrong,” Maes fills in before Roy can prompt him to continue, deep green eyes filled with a strange sort of sorrow. This is why he’s the best grifter of them all, he thinks absently (well, him and Riza)—because while Roy might know every step of a plan, know how to manipulate and convince and con, Maes knows _people._ It’s what allows him to get in the head of every mark that considers themselves con-proof and leave them with nothing—and right now, it’s allowing him to get into the heads of the kids that are steadily becoming as much a part of the team as the rest of them. “Because he didn’t want you to worry.”

Al nods fervently, small shoulders trembling. Havoc rubs the kid’s back gently, murmuring encouragement that none of them can quite make out. And Roy—Roy can only watch, and think, and try to work out where the eldest of the two Elric brothers is.

 _So he had a nightmare. He had a nightmare, and he didn’t tell any of us about it—of course he didn’t, he probably doesn’t trust us completely yet and if we didn’t hear him and come to check on him, he probably wouldn’t tell us about any of the other nightmares either._ Roy sucks in a breath at the thought, unreasonably shaken by the ideal of the six-year-old suffering through all of this alone despite the fact that it was all he did for years and years of Sfazo’s torment. _Focus, Roy._

_He was already upset when he woke up, and he hid it because he’s scared and doesn’t want us to worry. Makes sense. Not dealing with it means that feeling festered, and ended up getting set off by something later in the morning. Which was what resulted in the scream—and then the vents. Which I will murder Fuery for teaching him about later._

At a loss for where Ed is, Roy does what he’s always done to survive—looks for a new angle, and _attacks_. It’s what turned him from soldier to alchemist, alchemist to bodyguard, bodyguard to assassin, assassin to criminal vigilante and leader of the nastiest crew this side of the desert. It’s how he’s won through loss and pulled success from the jaws of defeat, and _damnit,_ he’ll use it to pull Ed out of the jaws of despair if it’s the last thing he does.

…Maybe he’s being a tad overdramatic. Is this how parents usually feel? Is this what parents _do?_ God, the constant, crushing worry is incredible. He has no idea how they put up with it all the time. Maybe he should write Madame Christmas a card and a very large check for putting up with him. A very, very large check, especially if he was half as much trouble as she jokes he was.

 _Focus,_ he reminds himself yet again. _Something startled Ed badly enough to scare him into running from the breakfast table, and then to the vents. What happened?_

Havoc had been making them breakfast like usual, arguing and bickering with everyone in the kitchen. The usual. Ed had already seen that, dealt with that shock with surprising aplomb for a small, traumatized child. It happened every day, had become part of the daily routine for the boys, same as Maes reading to them or Fuery and Breda making bets in the back about which bar patron would be easiest to con, so that wasn’t it.

There had been shouting after a moment—both boys had jolted at that, and Riza had stuck her gun into the kitchen as a silent, deadly warning. It had turned into hushed bickering, which was again, just part of a day with them. Hell, they could have been _on a job_ and Breda and Havoc and Fuery would still be arguing through the comms. So no, that wasn’t it either.

A crash—flour—and then Havoc had stumbled out of the kitchen, snapping at whoever had knocked over said flour and holding a knife—

And then Ed had screamed, tumbled off the stool, and fled out of sight before any of them could catch him. Before any of them could even ask what was _wrong._

Sfazo had been a _butcher,_ hadn’t he? And some of the scars on Ed’s back when Roy had been put on bath duty—they’d looked too neat, too thin to be the cuts of nails or skin broken by the blows of fists. As if they were made by… _by…_

“Fucking shit,” Roy whispers. _The knife._ “He thought we were going to cut him. Oh, _Jesus.”_ The room suddenly spins around him, and he slumps into the stool, staring at nothing. _He thought we were going to hurt him._

For once, no one warns him about _damnit, Roy, watch your language around the kids._ In fact, when he can bring himself to look up, they all look similarly stricken, even ever-stoic Riza. Abruptly, she grabs two glasses out of the cupboard, fills them both with rich, amber liquid, and slides one to him before downing her own.

“I needed that,” is her only explanation before she stalks off with the air of a woman on a mission. Despite everything, Roy can’t help but feel a burst of fierce, burning affection in his chest as she sets off for—god, he doesn’t even know where, but Riza never does anything without a purpose behind it. He trusts her with his back for a reason.

_Just as you trusted me with yours._

He shakes off the memories like a dog shaking off water as she stalks back in after a moment, carrying a box of—comms. She slams it on the counter none-too-gently, eyes flashing dangerously when Breda yelps something about _sensitive equipment, please don’t break them!_ Eight of the little life-saving communication devices are in the box, deemed unneeded since none of them particularly planned on going out today.

Eight comms…for nine people.

Worry, panic and borderline terror flare up with blinding, overwhelming hope as the realization hits him like a lightning bolt right out of the sky: _Ed has his comm with him._

“He really does think like a thief,” he mutters before he can stop himself, and watches Riza’s lips twist up into a grim smile.

She fishes two out, fits one in her ear before tossing the other to him. “Breda, bring us online.” A command that none of their crew, Roy included, would be foolish enough to dream of disobeying (Riza is _terrifying_ in a state like this, all grifter-and-sharpshooter, none of the warm, amused thief they— _he_ —have come to love). Sure enough, after a moment, there’s a soft crackle as Breda’s fingers fly across the screen of his phone, and—

_Whimpering._

Ed is _crying_.

The realization makes something in Roy _twist,_ and he’s on his feet before Riza can so much as get a word out, stalking for the staircase. “Ed, honey, it’s okay. No one’s upset with you,” he soothes quickly, slipping over his words in his desperation to get them out, to soothe that heartbreaking sound. “Can you tell us where you are?”

Silence—terrifying, electric silence as they all await a response, as Ed sucks in a breath and doesn’t seem to let it out again. Then—softly, in a voice so small it _hurts,_ the six-year-old hiccups and sobs, _“C-can’t t-tell.”_ There’s a small, wounded cry, a clang of metal as though he’s shifting in the air ducts. _“M’s-sorry—"_

“Don’t worry about that right now, Ed,” Riza cuts in smoothly, her voice ringing both directly in his ear and across the bar from him. Her eyes are fixed on nothing in particular, as though she’s trying to see through the vents themselves to where Ed is. “Did you pass over any vents before? Can you go back to them?”

There’s another sob, but Ed says yes and then there’s horrible, heartbreaking silence as they listen to him clamber shakily through the ventilation shaft, interrupted every now and then by a whimper and a sob, and a whisper as Roy or Riza attempts to soothe him, guide him. Roy can’t help the worry that increased with every shift and sob, can’t stop himself from wanting to climb into the vents himself and investigate that metal maze until the boy’s safely in his arms again.

He is _definitely_ sending Madame Christmas a card.

_“F-found a—a v-vent.”_

_Deep breaths. Focus. It’s just another job._ “Good. Look through it and tell me what you see, kiddo.” Roy keeps his instructions short, clinical, scared half-to-death that he’ll devolve into senseless panicking and further ridiculous attempts to soothe the clearly distraught child. “Anything you recognize?”

Riza meets his eyes as another pause stretches, and starts humming a soft, soothing melody as Ed’s breathing begins to speed up again. _“A—um—c-couch…s’black, a-an—there’s a—there’s a pillow with a—a s-sun on it.”_ The sniffle the boy makes is so pitiful that it nearly crumbles the rest of Roy’s defenses, nearly sends him thundering up the stairs as he realizes what floor the kid’s on.

“Hughes,” he says, and that’s all he has to say before is Maes sliding off his stool and heading up the stairs. “That’s good, Ed, that’s—that’s really good. That’s Maes’s floor, and he’s coming up to get you right now, honey. Just hold on, okay?”

“You’re doing well,” Riza adds, leaning against the bar in a gesture an onlooker would see as casual. Roy, however, knows she feels every bit as weak at the knees as he does, but is a dozen times less likely to admit and act on it. She’s always been a better soldier than him, in any case—first in Amestris’ war, and now his crusade. “We’re so proud of you, Ed. Just stay right where you are.”

_“O-okay.”_

The wait is nearly unbearable, and Roy catches himself nearly following Maes up the stairs at least five times. Soon enough, though, there’s murmurs filtering through the comms, and then Ed is sobbing again, and _how could he have expected himself to just sit here and wait, he’s such a goddamn_ idiot—

Roy only realizes what he’s doing halfway up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time in his effort to get up them. Riza’s sigh echoes in his ears before her comm winks offline, fondly exasperated despite everything. He nearly collides with them at the top of the staircase to Maes’s floor, his best friend letting out a yelp as he skids to a halt in front of them—but that doesn’t matter, not even _slightly._ Because huge golden eyes are staring at him, clothes covered in dust and blonde hair a mess, a child that looks like a feral cat taken off the streets settled in his best friend’s arms.

Ed reaches out his arms and bursts into tears, and Roy sweeps him up into his grip before he can even _think_ of stopping himself. His legs give out at the sudden _relief_ that rushes through him, the absence of the overwhelming panic leaving him weak at the knees as he cradles the boy against him.  “You’re grounded,” he whispers into his son’s hair. “You are _so, so_ unbelievably grounded, Edward Elric, don’t you _ever_ make me worry like that again—”

Ed just cries into his shoulder and clings to him, but Roy thinks that his shoulders hitch with laughter for a moment instead of tears, and right now…right now, that’s enough. “Maes?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Tell Fuery he gets thirty seconds before I start hunting him down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this one being angsty...but the next one's gonna be a barrel of laughs, I swear. After all, what happens when you have to send the children of thieves to school? SHENANIGANS.


	5. The Honor Amongst Thieves Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed asks some questions that get Roy ruminating on where his crew stands between good and evil. And then, because nothing serious can last, his two second-in-commands get competitive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! I lied. There's no school in this chapter, but there is next chapter, I swear! Plus, more info on the bar, and Ed and Al being prodigies in something a little more illegal than alchemy (BABY THIEVES, Y'ALL)

It’s nine in the morning on a particularly hectic day when Roy’s usual mid-morning “Evil Plotting Session” (as Havoc and Breda have so helpfully dubbed it) is interrupted by a small voice asking, “Whatcha doin’?”

Roy glances sideways at the small child standing on his tiptoes, peering at the blueprints of Monsieur Antonio Verasce’s summer manor, golden eyes wide and curious. “Plotting the next job,” he starts, before reminding himself that _no, he’s not going to turn these kids into thieves or induct them into this “business”_ and ruffling Ed’s hair. “Which is none of your business, kiddo.” _Not yet, at least—hopefully not ever, but I doubt that one can stay in a thief bar and_ not _become a thief._ “I’ll tell you about it when it’s done, how about that?”

Maybe using their past jobs as bedtime stories isn’t exactly the _best_ way to keep Ed and Al from wanting to join his team, but hey—he’s got _plenty_ of them, and he can guarantee that no other kid is going to sleep to the thrilling tale of the Two To Tango Job, or the White Knight Job. Hell, Al’s practically memorized the Sundance Job by now. _That kid would be one hell of a mastermind—and_ no, _Roy, stop doing this, you’re_ not _turning them into thieves._ _Madame Christmas will_ kill _you._

Ed scowls, looking smaller and more adorable (and less threatening) than ever. “But you’re _always_ plotting a job—a-an’ sayin’ it’s not my business!” Small hands plant themselves on the counter, and Roy yelps as Ed scrambles up onto the counter, frowning down at the blueprints before staring at him through wide, hopeful golden eyes. “Can I help this time? P-please? Or just listen while you go after the mark?” He clasps his hands together, those damn _eyes_ shining innocently. “I won’t t-talk, I p-promise!”

“Sorry to doubt your right to remain silent,” Roy says dryly, “but given that I’ve spent the last two and a half weeks listening to you chatter into the comms faster than a train can move, I sincerely don’t think that’s possible.” It’s almost impressive, how Ed’s nearly exploded out of his shell now—he still startles easily, still has nightmares and cries more easily than other kids (half the time, though, it’s out of anger, which is…impressive), but he’s fiercely affectionate and talks a mile a minute about anything and everything that catches his interest. Al is the quieter of the two, but almost _more_ mischievous; the five-year-old can’t go five _minutes_ without causing trouble (and nearly always getting away with it, because Havoc and Breda think its hilarious and Falman “doesn’t see it” and Fuery approves).

It’s…hectic, to say the least, but Roy’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Ed pouts even _more,_ if it’s possible. “Pretty please?” he whines, the very _picture_ of a lost, innocent child. A week ago, Roy would have fallen for that innocent look utterly.

…oh, shit, he’s fairly sure he’s still falling for it now. “Uh—”

_“No,”_ Riza says, swooping in like the guardian angel of grace and love she is and scooping Ed up off the counter. Roy raises his cup of coffee in a toast of utter and eternal gratitude—and she raises her eyebrows at him, glancing meaningfully at the wall of liquor behind her. He _definitely_ doesn’t stick his tongue out at her in response to those vicious _lies_ she’s implying; he’s been trying to stay _away_ from the alcohol when the kids are awake and just because they live in a bar doesn’t mean he’s hiding any alcohol in his coffee. Today, at least. “Maybe when you and Al are both older, but definitely not today, and definitely not on a removal job.”

“R-removal?” Ed furrows his brow, seemingly more intrigued by the new term than the indignity of being told he can’t help—and thank goodness for that, because it’s too early for a potential meltdown for _all_ of them. Roy studiously ignores the clamor in the kitchen—Fuery had started breakfast this morning, and Havoc had come down and promptly been horrified at the “fortune-cookie muffins” the thief was creating—and turns back to the blueprints, tapping his thumb thoughtfully over the mark’s bedchamber.

_Ugh,_ he thinks after a moment, _I need to get out more, I’m using words like_ bedchamber. His inner Maes makes a maniacal noise, and the actual, physical Maes halfway down the stairs with a five-year-old in tow mimics it with terrifying accuracy—shit, he must have spoken out _loud—_ before Ed (with a horrific sort of cheeriness) says, “Is t-that like w-what you did to Uncle?”

Oh, Christ on a motorcycle. Roy tries not to choke on his coffee as the color briefly drains from Maes’s face, Riza’s only outward sign of any emotion whatsoever the slightest twitch before she, smooth as you please, says, “Yes, that’s exactly right.” She’s certainly never been one to sugarcoat things, and perhaps it’s for the best given that they would’ve found out eventually, but—

Christ on _two_ motorcycles. This is absolutely not helping. Ed is looking altogether too interested in murder, and Al, despite having only come down a few seconds ago, is listening with rapt attention. Riza blinks, seemingly realizing what she said, and winces subtly enough that only he and Maes see it, her gaze apologetic. It’s easy to forget, Roy knows, that these kids aren’t _like them,_ bloodstained and trying to stitch their humanity back together, to atone for the unforgivable—while doing it all again. Easy to forget that they _shouldn’t_ be like them.

 For the first time in a while, doubt plucks at Roy’s chest again, peppering it like raindrops—light but irritating, and heralding a downpour. Every single person in this building besides these kids has blood on their hands, and none more so than he. Hell, half the time they _kill people for a living._ Bad people, sure, but still _people._ Murder for a good cause is still murder, still illegal, and still utterly irreversible for both murderer and victim.

He doesn’t feel sorry for the bastards—stopped feeling bad for them when an old, dying CEO tried to steal a donated heart on its way to a young, dying boy (hardly older than the kids in front of him now) by kidnapping a nurse’s daughter. Stopped when he’d found corporations willing to cause famine to make their billions, when he’d watched them write off life after life as less important than their money. But neither does he want the two small, precious souls before him growing up thinking that _their_ way is the _only_ way—and that a life can be taken so callously.

_Do we even have the right to do this? To try to protect something, instead of stealing it?_

“It’s right,” he agrees, indicating with a nod of his head for Maes to carry Al closer, so he could look both boys in the eyes. “But a removal job is only ever used for the worst of the worst, who can’t be stopped any other way. You can destroy a mark without taking their life, sometimes make their fate even worse than death.” Roy stares into soft, thoughtful bronze eyes, then into sharp, glittering gold, willing them to understand. “The only reason we go that far is to stop those who can’t otherwise be stopped. It’s a last resort. Understand?”

The boys look at each other, something secret and strange passing between them, between the bond there that’s stronger than anything Roy has ever seen—one he hopes never fades. It’s Al who nods first, before wriggling in Maes’s arms and pointing at the blueprints. “H-he’s…can’t b-be stopped?”

A grimace crosses Roy’s face at the memory of what the client (sobbing, begging—she barely escaped him, she pleaded, she doesn’t have much but she’ll give them anything they’re willing to take to do this job—it’s fine, they say, their line of work has an alternative revenue stream, and try not to let the horror sink too deep) had told them about Verasce, the rumors Breda’s hacking, Maes’s grifting, and Falman’s knowledge had proven true. Before he can come up with a kid-friendly way to say it, Maes explains, “He steals people and sells them.”

_Better than I would have put it._

That results in outrage from the both of them, so sudden and potent that Roy marvels at the strength of it. Al’s openly scowling for the first time he can remember, bronze eyes blazing, while Ed is halfway to turning into the vicious little hellcat he catches glimpses of from time to time. They seem even _more_ intent on joining in now (and God, while the idea of them tagging along is as hilarious as it is terrifying, he feels more the latter than the former). _“No,”_ he repeats before Ed can demand to listen in again. “I swear, I’ll tell you both as much as you want to know when it’s done, but you do not need to hear it go down.”

Ed crosses his arms, scowling at the ground. Al squints at him, as if trying to assess how much he means it (and to be fair, so are Riza and Maes, though for entirely different reasons). “P-promise?” the five-year-old asks after a moment, and sticks out his pinky.

Hell. He’s really about to pinky-promise to tell these kids everything about a murder, isn’t he. He’s pretty sure that breaks some ancient law about the sanctity of a pinky-promise somewhere. “Promise,” he affirms, and locks his own pinky around the kid’s.

_“I should have gotten a picture of that,”_ Maes whisper-squeals, and Riza, forever his saving grace, elbows him without jarring Ed or Al at all. “Ow! Riza, I’m holding precious cargo here!” Al giggles at that, breaking the contact, and Roy rolls up the blueprints of the manor quickly before Ed can see them and regain interest.

“If you can’t take a hit without dropping the merchandise, you’re a worse thief than I thought,” Riza deadpans, and both children let out an _“oooooh”_ that Roy knows is entirely antagonistic and so reminiscent of the fights he witnessed back in grade school (sloppy, compared to what their hitter could do—to what _any_ of them could do—but looking back, he realizes fourth-graders are vicious little bastards when they want to be) that he snorts into his coffee.

Maes gasps overdramatically, sitting Al on the bar before placing a hand theatrically on his chest. “Wha—oh, that is _it!_ Tonight, 7:00—let’s see who can catch the most marks out of the people at the bar!”

_Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me._ Roy throws up his hands in exasperation. “Really? I have like, _two rules,_ and the first one is _don’t steal from our customers!_ How _hard_ is that?” The bar, while more of a fun side gig that provides a safe cover story and a (not a _lair,_ shut up, Breda) base of operations that keeps them all under one roof (so okay, more than just a cover story), is still a legitimate place of business and a booming restaurant. Between Havoc’s cooking, the general ambience, and the crime-related names of all the menu items (Fuery’s idea, but it had _worked),_ their place is one of the most popular spots in town—and a battleground whenever two or more of his team are pissed at the others, settling things via _stealing_ competitions. Which, you know, would be _great_ if it was just the type of people they normally went after, but most were average citizens. Ordinary people looking to have a fun night out, and _not_ find their possessions as points in a contest of criminals.

“Just _once?”_ Maes wheedles, and if he hadn’t left his gloves upstairs, the grifter’s favorite Polaroid would be a pile of smoking plastic right now.

“Roy’s right,” Riza says, putting Ed down beside his brother (both boys are wide-eyed with interest, and Roy wants to tell them never to do what these idiots are doing) and thank God for seconds-in-command who _don’t_ have it in for him. “Besides, why target our own bar when we can rob our rivals blind?” And oh, no, that’s not what he wanted her response to be at all—but _gah,_ that slight, wicked smirk curling across her face is _devastating. Heart, don’t do this to me._ “So here’s _my_ challenge, Hughes: you, me, _The Golden_ at nine _._ The one to go home with the most loot wins. Loser owes the other a favor.”

The other grifter grins, green eyes crackling dangerously. “You’re on, Hawkeye.”

“I b-bet Riza wins,” Ed stage-whispers to Al. Roy resists the urge to drown himself in his coffee. _Stop antagonizing them, you adorable gremlin._

Luckily, before either Al or Maes (or even Riza, who he’s steadily losing all faith in) can respond, Fuery bursts out of the kitchen (and shoots a dirty look over his shoulder—Havoc shoved him out, no doubt, for the crime of “misuse of fortune cookies”). Upon seeing the kids, he brightens, waving. “Ed, Al! Havoc wants to know if you want chocolate milk—”

_“Yesplease!”_ The words escape Al so fast that they string together into one, his face lighting up so much that for a second, he looks as golden as his big brother. A rush of affection sweeps over Roy—these kids have been through _so much._ It’s both sweet and heartbreaking to see Al get so excited over the promise of a treat. “Do y-you want some, Brother?”

And Ed—Ed looks absolutely _horrified._ “C-chocolate…milk?”

_Oh, right. He loves chocolate—and absolutely hates milk._

“Yeah!” Fuery chirps, misinterpreting the horror as confusion. “It’s really good; most people use chocolate syrup, but Havoc is needlessly fancy—”

“I HEARD THAT.”

“—so he melts Hershey’s Kisses and heats the milk and stirs it together so it’s like hot chocolate, and then freezes it ‘til it’s cold,” the thief continues, utterly undaunted. “Then he puts whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles on it.” Al’s eyes have been growing bigger and bigger, clearly filled with visions of this frothy chocolate concoction, while Ed looks more and more betrayed. It’s _hilarious._ “Want some?”

“W-why would you r-ruin _chocolate_ with _milk?”_

Fuery blinks, looking confused. Roy tries not to snicker like an undignified twelve-year-old at the sight—and fails, miserably. “Because it’s tasty?”

“It _s-sounds_ tasty,” Al says dreamily, and Maes makes a strangled noise that’s probably an adoring coo, knowing him. “C-can I have it with r-rainbow sprinkles? Please,” he adds quickly, small hands knotting together in his lap as Ed shakes his head, eyes wide and muttering nonsense about traitors and milk and _perfectly good chocolate._

“Havoc, can Al have his chocolate milk with rainbow sprinkles?”

“’Course he can,” Havoc calls from the kitchen. “And Fuery, I swear, if you ate all the Ghirardelli—”

“Please tell me you _didn’t_ eat all the Ghirardelli,” Riza sighs, hands running absent-mindedly through Ed’s hair; the kid’s fallen silent, seemingly just enjoying the contact. “You on another sugar high is the last thing we need.”

“I did _not!”_ Fuery protests indignantly. “I had _some,_ and not even a _lot_ of it. So I'm not even that hyper!" Which is a lie, because Fuery is always at least  _slightly_ more energetic than the average human being (and it's a million times worse when sugar's involved), but there's no telltale stains, so he figures the thief isn't lying. Roy watches as he pulls a lock mechanism out of his pocket and starts fiddling with it, before beaming at the kids. “Hey, let’s see if either of you have improved your safecracking times since yesterday! Didja practice?”

_Safecracking_ what.

“Yeah!” Ed’s the first to squirm his way off the bar, Maes helping Al down before both are off and running after the youngest member of the team, following him to one of the dining tables. Roy watches with a mixture of shock, pride, and horror as Al immediately begins plucking and poking at the lock. Fuery timing him with a stopwatch—

_And opens it in under a minute._

And then it’s Ed’s turn, and he gets it in _forty-five seconds._ Maes, traitor that his is, whips out his phone and snaps pictures of them.

“Fuck,” Roy manages faintly, ignoring Riza’s warning thwack to the top of his head for the expletive. “Thief prodigies. Riza, they’re _thief prodigies,_ what the _hell—”_

“Did you really expect anything else? They’re learning from _us,”_ she points out, calm as ever. “Even if Fuery’s the only one directly teaching them, they’re still around us all the time. They’re picking up on our little tricks to what we do and _using_ them without realizing it. When they actually _focus_ on it, they’ll only learn faster and use it more.” She shifts, suddenly hesitant. “I want them to have a chance to be normal children as much as you do, trust me, but as long as they’re being raised by _us…_ even if they decide not to be thieves, they’ll be a little different.”

Maes tilts his head, leaning over the bar. “You could always send them to school,” he suggests, “if you want them to have more ‘normal kid’ experiences. And, you know, friends their age.” The amusement has faded from his face, replaced with thoughtfulness; Roy follows his gaze to the boys, to Al cheering Ed on as he races Fuery to pick the lock first, Ed accepting the consolidatory high five from Fuery when he loses with a look of grim determination. They look…lively. Unafraid. _Happy._

“I think we’ll have to handle the school thing soon.” Roy leans back, resigns himself to the addition of two new thieves to the household, to the training of these small, criminal geniuses—and the trials and tribulations of public school on top of it. “But for now…” He can’t stop himself from smiling slightly as Ed picks the lock faster than Al and whoops in victory, Al quickly demanding a rematch. “Different suits them.”

_Yeah, it suits them just fine._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't the art amazing? The wonderful [FloatingOnAFeeling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloatingOnAFeeling/pseuds/FloatingOnAFeeling) drew it for me and I'm dying. Like, just dead on the floor. 
> 
> Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed the chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Curious? Need clarification? Just want more? Drop a comment or a kudos--I love hearing what you think!
> 
> Sincerely, Addict


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